


Discord Drabble Collection

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Psychonauts
Genre: Chance Meetings, Drabble Collection, Forks, Friendship, Grilled Cheese, Multi, Shoes, Smoking, Therapy, Waiting Rooms, bad fathers, late-night discussions of shitty fathers, memory vaults - Freeform, more tags to come, one-sided crushes, work-place romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: Some short fics I wrote on the Psychowhatsits Discord. Figure I better officially post them before they get forgotten.
Relationships: Dogen Boole & Razputin Aquato, Franke Athens/Kitty Bubai, Mikhail Bulgakov/Phoebe Love, Phoebe Love & Dogen Boole, Quentin Hedgemouse/Kitty Bubai
Kudos: 9





	1. Nice Shoes

"Oh, oops!" Quentin smacked himself on the head with the flat of his palm. "I dropped my fork, like, again!" He held his hand up, wiggling his fingers. " I think I must have sunflower oil on my hands or something, cuz dang, I've been a clutz today."

Phoebe gave him a look that managed to convey both confusion and annoyance. "Uh, okay?"  She leaned to side, looking under the table for the fork that Quentin had  accidentally on purpose dropped . "It's all the way over there," she said, pointing towards the far right of the table. "Near where Kitty and Franke are sitting."

"Oh is it?" A suspicious amount of eagerness inflected his tone. "That was  totally unintentional."

"Right." Phoebe reached her arm out. "I can get it-"

"No, no!" Quentin put a hand on her shoulder, pushing at her before she could use her telekinesis. "I should get it. I mean, I'm the one who dropped it."

Phoebe looked at him for a solid second before speaking. "Alright," she said.  The way she elongated the word made it sound as though she thought that he would be in need of some of her counseling soon . "Go for it."

Quentin did. He ducked his head underneath the table, because he needed to see where the fork was before he could grab it.  The white plastic fork had skittered five feet across the floor, well within the range of his telekinesis . Close by hovered the  stylishly sandaled feet of Kitty Bubai, above the wooden plank floor.

Quentin stared, awed by his crush's choice in footwear. Usually Kitty wore sneakers; nice, expensive ones that she managed to keep free of dirt and grass.  Today she'd opted for these rad, strappy sandals the same deep purple as her hair, the leather studded with round silver dots . There was something that was  just so...rad about them. Quentin didn't know what it was. Was it because of how well the strap going across her foot fit? The way that the backstrap seemed to emphasize the jut of her anklebone?  Perhaps it was  just her pedicure- her toenails were a light teal, and sparkling with silver glitter . Had she done them yesterday? Was that why she was wearing sandals? Quentin didn't know and he didn't care. All that he was certain of was that teal was now his favorite color in the whole world.

"Huh?"  Phoebe's sharp voice brought him out of his  increasingly weird thoughts about the toes of the girl he liked . He thumped his head on the table as he righted himself. "Yeah?" he asked, dazed, rubbing his temple.

"What the heck are you doing?" Phoebe glanced down at his hands, devoid of utensils. "Where's the fork?"

"The what?"

Phoebe rolled her eyes, and then ducked down under the table. When she came back up a second later she had his fork in her hand. "Here," she said, thrusting it at him. "Don't drop it again, okay?"

Quentin took it, a strange sense of loss coming over him. "Uh, thanks." He turned back towards his tray, staring down at the food he had little wish to use the fork to eat. He glanced up, eyes flickering to his crush like a moth to a pretty, high-maintenance flame.

Kitty was looking at him, her face blank. Quentin felt his heart stop for a moment when her lips turned upward a second later.


	2. Waiting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe and Dogen wait together, like they do every week.

He is always here three minutes before his appointment. She is always here five minutes before her own. This counseling service owned by a married couple. Dogen will be seeing Dr. Horatio. Phoebe will be spending the next forty-five or so minutes with Dr. Kelnatz.

After he checks in, Dogen goes down to the waiting area to sit in one of the cushioned, faux-leather chairs. He always picks the seat that is one away from her own, giving her a shy nod as he passes. The chair gives a soft creak as he settles his large body down into it. That will be the entirety of the noise that he makes during his wait.

They have never spoken to each other during these weekly visits. It is not due to any enmity between them- they get along quite well at work, and have even gone out for drinks now and again. It seems pointless to engage in conversation when their appointments are so close. But even if they had more time, they would not spend it talking to each other. They both will be doing enough of that within the next hour. No reason to strain the vocal chords.

So they sit and wait in what would be companionable silence were it not for the television and ringing phones . Now is the time when Phoebe likes to plan out what she is going to bring up with Dr. Kelnatz. Right now she is a little nervous, since the main focus of this session will be the relapse she had yesterday night. Her being burnt out with work and school has caused to her actually burn three jackets- one of them not her own.  The high that came from the ignition of leather and fake fur has long since turned to ash, sort of like the jackets themselves . Anxiety pulses within her as she imagines her doctor's disappointment. 

She sneaks glances at Dogen to distract herself from her own nerves. Like her, he has his hands clasped together, but his posture is different. Her back is straight while he hunches forward.  He almost looks like he's praying, she thinks, although she does not believe that Dogen is all that religious .  This like confession for us.  She wonders if he's working out what he's going to say to his doctor too; wonders if he's nervous, wonders if he's had a relapse . A shock of instinctive fear runs through her; followed by guilt.  He hasn't hurt anyone in over a decade  she chastises herself, turning her gaze away.  And you don't why he's here. It might having nothing to do with...any of that. 

But it  probably does. How could it not?  Phoebe's eyes flicker over to Dogen's black skull cap, the device that helps him control the output of his blastokinesis clipped to the side of it . Dogen is now twenty-three, and has been a Psychonaut since he was sixteen. He has many missions under his belt, and has not had a single black mark on his record; a rarity in this agency.  He has recently obtained a degree in both Ecology and Chemistry; following in the footsteps of his well-educated family .

All these accomplishments and yet, his early years have put a stain on his reputation that is impossible to get out . Dogen Boole does not put one seat between them because he needs his personal space. It is because distance from other people is what he  is used to. Better that he put it there himself than have someone get nervous and flee from him like a rabbit from a wolf.

They are alike, in that respect. Her first pyromaniac flare-up occurred when she was six years old and still living in Vermont.  The story of the shed she had burned down had spread all over town, and many of the kids at her school had been too afraid to even make fun of her for it . That shed followed her all the way across the country, along with all the other things she's burned. A scorched parade that grew larger and more acrid as the years passed.

There are times that Phoebe has wanted to talk to Dogen about this. To tell him that she knows what its like to to have others fear and shun you. What its like to struggle with powers and urges that you should have control over. What its like to see eyes avert themselves from you. But to do that seems farcical. Phoebe's accidents have cost her possessions, relationships, and months lost to various institutions.

Dogen Boole's accidents have a body count.

The door clicks open. "Phoebe Love," Dr. Kelnatz calls, as warm and non-judgmental as she always is. "Ready when you are."

Phoebe inhales, exhales, and then rises. She does not look back at Dogen as she walks out of the waiting room. She knows that she will not see him there when she leaves.  But she does hope that his session with Dr. Horatio goes well, and that he will be able to find something resembling peace when he departs .


	3. Dogpile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dogen has an issue with Memory Vaults.

"Alright man," Raz said as he led Dogen into one of the smaller tents set-up some distance away from the big top. "They told me that you had some issue with vaults?"

"Yeah..." Dogen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little awkward. The problem had been plaguing him for years, and had cost him more than one partnership. He could only hope that it wouldn't ruin this one.

"No big deal, bro," Raz said, as confident as ever. "I know you don't like hitting things that look like animals, but  really , you don't have to do more than tap them. Doesn't hurt them at all." He glanced towards the back of the tent. Two of his vaults chased each other around in the otherwise empty space. "Here, we can practice on those over there."

"But that's not-"

Raz cut him off by shoving him into the tent. "One tap," Raz repeated, patting him on the back. "You can do it."

The vaults paused in their game, their attention caught by their host's voice. The two of them faced Dogen, evaluating him where they stood as though trying to see if he was trustworthy.  Dogen couldn't help but think they were  really cute, with the way their ears flicked toward him and how their combination lock noses spun as though they were testing the air itself . He gave them a little wave. "Hi...

As though the word were their cue, the two vaults charged him. They looked liked his mom's boyfriend's yorikes, running over him on their stubby legs. They jumped right into his arms, their doors swinging open to allow their massive tongues to hang out

"Oh, what the hell," Raz yelled, jumping back  just in time to avoid Dogen crashing into him as he fell to the ground on his back. "What is this?"  he asked, too shocked to do anything but watch as his two vaults slobbered all over Dogen as though they were actual canines . "I've never seen them do that before."

"It's- ack" Dogen pushed one of them away as it's tongue passed over face. "It always happens like this with me."  He sat up and scratched both vaults behind their 'ears' at the same time, jerking back whenever their swinging doors came a little too close to his head for comfort . "The vaults  just run up to me.  I think \- oof!" One of them stepped on his stomach in their attempt to get closer to his head. " I think it's because they me remind of dogs"

Raz burst out laughing.  "Yeah, I can see how that would cause some issues," he said before stepping forward toward the vault-agent heap . "Alright, get off him." He began kicking the vaults away, managing to close one shut with his foot. "C'mon stop. You guys didn't even buy him dinner first."

Dogen could have sworn that one of them actually growled at Raz- wow, dogs  really did hate him. He got up as Raz shooed them both away, wiping off some of the drool off of his face. "Yeah. So that's, um, my problem. They like me."

Raz came back to him, looking amused. "They sure fucking do, wow." He grinned. "I bet you've seen some shit."

Dogen sighed and nodded.


	4. Chance Meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has a connection to Heatstroke, my Mikhail/Phoebe story.

Department meetings were always the worst part of the job.  There was nothing exciting about sitting around and watching the two Department Heads disparage the other's ideas while pretending that they didn't despise each other . Nobody liked attending these things, but skipping out was not an option. If you did, you found yourself assigned to the lowliest, most annoying tasks available.

Mikhail Bulgakov did not like these weekly meetings, but he didn't hate them the way his co-workers did.  Sure, he would rather be doing pretty much anything else, but the meetings gave Mikhail a chance to sit, settle, and recharge his facilities  .  He prepared himself for the quiet time ahead by putting his mind and body into a meditative state, using a series of deep breaths taught to him by the Great  Grizzly  Bears of the Volga River .

He was coming down the hall leading to his department's designated conference room early Tuesday morning, eyes half-lidded and muscles ready to do nothing for an extended period of time, when she came barreling out of a door on his left side . Had his reflexes been in their usual sharp state, he would have been able to jump out of the woman's way. As it was, the collision was unavoidable. They crashed into each other, uttering mutual grunts of surprise.

The woman was not big enough to do more than knock Mikhail off balance. The impact of her body on his did him no harm, but the parts of him that had she'd hit felt warm. Heat lingered despite the contact being brief. Familiarity tugged at him in an instant, though no specific memories cropped up. He gave the woman his full attention, his senses brought out of their dormancy.

The crash hadn't knocked her over either, but she had taken the brunt of the it. Understandable, given that he was at least a head taller than she was. She was sturdy, this he could tell from how well-defined her shoulders and biceps were.  Mikhail watched her readjust the papers shaken loose from the folder and decided that sleeveless blouses suited her . He wanted to believe that his interest was from a fitness perspective. The small burst of attraction sparking in his chest said otherwise.

She rambled out apologies as he admired her arms. "I'm so sorry," she said, shifting her folder under her arm. She raised her gaze to his face, a faint hint of embarrassment in her pretty hazel eyes. "I was in a hurry-my boss kept me longer than I thought she would and well..." A flush spread across her cheeks-it suited her as much as her shirt did. "I have a lot of other things to do today." She let out a chuckle as she tucked a springy black curl behind her ear. "You know how it is."

The corners of Mikhail's lips quirked upward. "Is fine," he said, liking the way her tongue peaked out to wet at her full lips. An unconscious gesture, no doubt, but not any less appealing for it. "Know how it is with these bosses. Care only about their own time, not ours." He cocked a grin at her and shrugged in a 'what can you do?' manner. "No harm done."

The woman nodded in agreement, looking him over in much the same way as he had done to her. Well, Mikhail would let her, it was only fair after all. "I'm glad you're alright," she said. Her eyes searched him like she were looking for something specific. That familiarity came back to him again. There was something about the way she took him in that reminded him of...something. Someone. But he couldn't remember what. She must have felt the same way. Her psychic energy swirled all around his head, warm and making him think of cinnamon. The only reason she hadn't dug into his mind to was because she didn't want to be rude.

He usually took that sort of thing as a challenge. But he thought he would allow an exception in her case, as curious about her as she was about him. And he'd always been soft on women who looked like they could go a few rounds in arm wrestling with him.

But she didn't reach into his mind. "I'm sorry," she said again, cocking her head to the side. Her smile was shy, but she was confident enough not to break eye contact with him. " I feel  like we've met before."

Mikhail put his hands into his pockets and shrugged again, though he felt the same way. "We pass each other by in office," he said, giving her a toothy grin. Her cheeks darkened further. The reaction gave him more gratification that it should have. "This first time we crash is all."

She laughed, the sound warming him from his ears all the way down to his stomach. "No, I mean..." She trailed off, looked away for a moment before focusing back on him. "I transferred here a few days ago. But I still feel like we've seen each other before." She looked him up and down once more before extending her free hand out. "I'm Agent Love," she said, the name almost ringing a bell. "Phoebe Love."

Mikhail took her hand in his. It was smooth, strong, and warm, fitting into his own. Touching her was like coming back home after wandering around in a snowstorm for hours. The warmth was instant and enveloping, spreading through his whole body via his hand. "Mikhail Bulgakov," he replied, so lost in the sensation that he almost forgot to give his name in return.

Her eyes widened like she had been  physically  shocked. "Mi-Misha?" Her mouth dropped open, theb snapped shut. "Oh my God," she said, half-laughing. "I can't believe it...I knew I'd seen you before somewhere but I hadn't thought..."

It hit him all at once. A summer camp far away from Kazan. A great, hairless bear that turned out to not be a bear at all. The mad doctor, the angry coach, and his jeep.  The jeep he'd levitated for a small, smart little girl who had looked at him like she wanted to kick him and kiss him at the same time .

A little girl who had set him on fire. More than once.

"Little Firestarter," he said, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Well now. Been long time, yes?"


	5. Tobacco and Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franke has no idea what to do with Kitty when she drops by in the early morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A member of my discord server (smkfan99) posted an amusing meme:
> 
> https://dat-soldier.tumblr.com/post/638498100440416256
> 
> and I wrote this little drabble thing. 
> 
> warning for mentions of smoking and unhealthy parental relationships.

"But it's not like I care," Kitty said before taking a long drag of her cigarette.

Franke watched her from the other side of the kitchen island, too confused and conflicted to be annoyed by the ash falling into a black pile on the countertop, or the smell of tobacco smoke that would no doubt linger in her apartment for days to come. A pile of its snubbed out sisters made their final resting place in the ashtray next to her (a green dish overseen by an alien smoking a joint- a late birthday gift given to her by Chloe Barge).

"They're both adults. They can do whatever they want with each other," Kitty continued, a cloud of grey smoke spewing out of her mouth as she spoke. "If Dad wants to waste his money paying for Chrissa's tuition, that's on him." She brought her hand- delicate and well-manicured as it always was- over her face and coughed. "God, these are terrible."

Franke frowned and muttered a yeah in agreement. Although to what, she couldn't say. The cigarettes- Camel's, no filter, likely stolen from one of Kitty's numerous boy-toys- were noxious enough to give her a headache just by inhaling them second hand. But something about the words Kitty was saying didn't line up with the rest of her. Kitty claimed that she didn't care that she had just found out that her college roommate had being seeing her father behind her back for weeks, and maybe part of her thought that she meant it. Her face- pinched with negative emotion- her eyes- lined in uneven black ink- and her lips- twitching like they were trying to hold back something battering at them- told Franke something very different. Even her shrugs were off. They could complete a nonchalant motion, but afterwards they trembled, the way the would on a person who was either very angry or crying hard.

"Should they be more discreet? Yeah, they fucking should," Kitty said, voice scrapped raw with cigarette smoke and sharp with anger. "Like, if we're at a restaurant celebrating _my_ birthday, they should at least try to keep their hands to themselves." She shook her head and scoffed, rolling her eyes. "But otherwise, you know, I don't care. It's not my business."

Discomfort tugged at Franke's gut. She'd only met Mr. Bubai a handful of times, but the bad vibes she'd felt during each encounter were enough to put her off the man even if their interactions had been benign. Kitty didn't talk about him that often and when she did, it was only to speak on his financial impact on her life. This was the first time she'd complained about his behavior at length, and man...Franke didn't know what to do. Or say. The thought of one of her dads acting like this made her physically sick, and she didn't know how Kitty kept herself from throwing up all over the place.

The digital clock on the stove claimed that it was 3:21 am. Kitty had shown up at her door perhaps less than hour earlier, her usual confident smirk on but the rest of her disheveled (in an admittedly sexy way) and reeking of fancy wine. She'd been chain-smoking and going on and on about this thing with her Dad that didn't bother her, not asking anything from Franke other than that she listen. And yet, Franke felt that she had to do something more than just nod awkwardly and make sympathetic noises in response to the things she was hearing.

But what could she do? What could she say to this girl, who, while no longer her girlfriend, was still a huge part of her life, the cause of most of the conflicting feelings that lingered within her like the smoke twisting in the air? _I love and care about you so much,_ her mental voice, more eloquent than her normal voice, said silently to Kitty as she rambled. _You still mean so much to me._

"The least Chrissa could have done," Kitty said, turning her head as she swiped a hand over her face, "was thank me for introducing her to her sugar daddy. Some people are so ungrateful."

"Do you want me to make you a grilled cheese?" Franke blurted out, much to her own horror.

Kitty went silent for the first time since she'd sat down at the counter. She tilted her head to the side and looked at Franke like she was seeing her for the first time. A sheen of unshed tears made her dark eyes look bigger in small, sharp face.

Then she laughed, the saddest 'ha!' Franke had ever heard. "Yeah," she said, voice choked. "I'd really like that, Franke."


End file.
